


Mates' Rates

by isitandwonder



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Client John, Escort Sherlock, Handcuffs, It's For a Case, Kinda, M/M, Rimming, as the prompt was pretending, but they talk about it afterwards, it gets a bit rough though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-01
Updated: 2017-05-01
Packaged: 2018-10-26 05:26:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10780488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isitandwonder/pseuds/isitandwonder
Summary: Sherlock pretends to be an escort. Of course, it's for a case. Yet his client turns out to be somewhat surprising in more than one way. Rough sex ensues. But it's all fine.





	Mates' Rates

„I can’t believe what you just said, Sherlock! Are you totally out of your mind?” John explodes.

“John, don’t make a fuss. It’s perfectly save…” Sherlock sounds bored to death.

“Perfectly save?” John parrots. “You are about to go undercover as a rent boy to catch a serial murderer who has already disembowelled four men!”

“See? He has to be stopped before he kills a fifth time!” Sherlock sneers.

“Who’s to say you don’t become his fifth victim?” John shouts. “Why has it to be you?”

“Because I fit his type, going by the other victims, all working for the same escort agency: tall, pale, slim, dark haired, mid-thirties…”

“Perfect. Just perfect. You look exactly like the men he loves to cut up. What could possibly go wrong?” John turns and marches off into the kitchen, aggressively putting the kettle on.

Sherlock hesitates a moment, then follows.

“John…”

“What?” John snaps, throwing tea bags into their mugs. Two mugs. That’s a good sign.

“We have to catch him. There’s no other option. He won’t stop.”

John sighs. “I know. It’s just… this is bloody dangerous, Sherlock. I’m… I’m just…” John pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, willing the kettle to boil.  


Sherlock steps up behind him, tentatively puts his hands on John’s tense shoulders and leans his cheek against the crown of John’s head.

“Don’t be.” He whispers. “Lestrade will have me wired. No reason to worry. I promise I’ll be careful.” It’s a lie, but Sherlock chalks it up as one of his minor one’s, compared to jumping off a building in front of John’s eyes.

“It’s just… I couldn’t bear loosing you again, you idiot.” John mumbles, as if reading Sherlock’s mind, leaning back against his chest.

“You won’t. I promise.” Sherlock would actually promise so much more if John would just ask for it, but that’s another story.

John slowly turns to face Sherlock, wrapping his arms loosely around his slim waist. “Why can’t I come with you?” He asks, rubbing his nose along Sherlock’s jaw, sensing a hint of stubble.

“Because he doesn’t book threesomes.” Sherlock’s voice is a deep rumble, but turns into a soft moan when John starts to nibble at his earlobe.

“What a shame. He doesn’t know what he’s missing.” John breathes against the delicate shell of Sherlock’s ear before tilting his head and finally crushing their lips together, licking his way into Sherlock’s hot, wet mouth.

Tea is abandoned together with further discussions of the subject for the evening as they relocate to their bedroom.

\----------

Sherlock is nervous as he steps inside the lift. This is his first client of the evening. He did fit the profile NSY had compiled on the killer to the dot. That’s why Sherlock was assigned to the job by the agency. They had agreed to send him to every man who requested specifically someone resembling the other victims and wanted to meet at a posh hotel in the city. This client had even made the characteristic spelling errors in his text message. Yet, Sherlock's not sure…

He’d actually be glad if he’d meet the killer, and not a typical client awaiting an escort: middle-aged, slightly overweight, thinning hair, cheap aftershave. The killer just wants to dismember him, but real clients are after sexual encounters. Sherlock might even be forced to participate until he would be able to determine if he's dealing with the serial murderer or just some sad closeted sod from the suburbs.

He swallows and pushes that thought aside. He’ll just have to trust his intuition to be able to realize if he's confronting a cold-blooded sadistic murderer or just a pathetic travelling salesman seeking a lurid adventure away from home. Either way, he’ll cross that bridge when he comes to it.

Room 257 turns out to be at the end of a dimly lit corridor. The door’s ajar when Sherlock arrives, yet he still knocks.

“Hello?”

“Shower.” Comes a muffled, yet somehow familiar voice. “Just come in. Make yourself at home.”

It’s a nice voice. Neither too posh nor too vulgar. London accent. Man, early forties, professional, educated, military background…

“So, you are… Scott?” The voice is suddenly much closer and Sherlock spins around, his eyes wide in shock.

“You…!?” He gasps. He didn’t see that coming.

“Do I know you?” John asks, still wet, just clad in a fluffy towel round his waist. His scar is clearly visible on his shoulder, whitish ridges and grooves against his reddish skin, flushed from the heat of the shower.

“John, what…?” Oh. OH! Clever, clever John. Just, this isn’t the right time… “I can’t stay. I have to…” Sherlock gestures towards the door. There's still a murderer on the loose.

“The case is solved. The killer turned himself in this afternoon. A banker from the city, stressed out, erectile dysfunction, taking it out on rent boys resembling his supervisor.”

Sherlock gapes, stunned. John walks over to the chair where he'd deposited his clothes and gets his mobile, shoving it into Sherlock’s face. “See?”

Sherlock scrolls through the text messages. John’s right, the case is closed. Just, why didn’t Lestrade tell him? He wouldn’t have gone to the escort service in the first place if he’d known.

Understanding dawns on him a second later. John did arrange all of this. He quickly slips back into his role as Scott, the escort, tilting his head slightly to one side, a wicked little smile on his face.

“So, and you are… Mr White?” Sherlock asks in a husky voice.

John grins back at him. “I know, silly alias. Borrowed it from one of my favourite movies. You can call me Hamish.”

Sherlock bites the inside of his cheek. John usually hates this name! Well, usually… usually John doesn’t hire escorts either. But this is not John, not tonight. And he’s not Sherlock, he’s Scott…

“Ok. Hamish.” Sherlock puts on one of his enigmatic smiles. “What do you have in mind for this evening?” He walks over to the king-size double bed and sits down at its edge, looking coyly up at his client from under his lashes while his long fingers start plucking at the duvet.

“Drink?” John asks by way of an answer. When Sherlock gives a curt nod, he walks over to a small table between the windows and pours each of them a stiff whisky. “Tell me again, what are the services you provide?” John’s fingers brush Sherlock’s as he hands over the drink, lingering. Sherlock shivers.

“Ma-manual stimulation. Oral, active and passive. Anal.” Sherlock can feel himself blushing at this list and takes a large swig of the amber liquid. It pleasantly burns down his throat, making his head light and his cheeks heat up.

“Active or passive?” John takes a sip of his whisky, looking down at Sherlock.

“Just… passive.” Sherlock usually doesn’t bottom. Apparently, Scott does. John’s eyes go dark.

“How about rimming?”

Sherlock’s head snaps up. Their eyes meet. He just nods. “You can tie me up as well if you like.” He whispers.

“Will you charge extra for that?”

No. Sherlock thinks. “Of course.” Scott says, a lewd grin spreading on his face. “I’m not a charity.”

“’Cause not.” John sets his glass down on the bedside cabinet, takes off the towel and lies back on the bed, propped up against the cushions, hands folded behind his head. He’s already half-hard, his thick cock resting in a nest of dishwater-blond curls. “Well then, undress.”

Sherlock gets up and takes off his jacket before he starts to slowly unbutton his shirt. He feels exposed, as if put on display. Well, he is.

He lets his shirt fall to the floor. Gladly, he remembers to take his shoes and socks off before he pulls down trousers and pants, otherwise it would have been one of his more embarrassing stripteases. He has to remember that his client is paying good money for this. Mr White is entitled to a peak performance.

John – Hamish – rakes his eyes up and down Sherlock’s lean, naked body but doesn’t otherwise move. Sherlock slowly crawls onto the bed until he’s hovering over John on all four, his knees at either side of John's thighs, his mouth just inches away from John’s lips.

“What do you want me to do first?”

Their eyes lock. John’s pupils are blown wide, his usually azure blue irises turned into a dark navy halo.

“Put your mouth on me, gorgeous. Suck me off.” John’s voice is raw with sudden need.

Sherlock gently bites down on John’s clavicle before trailing the tip of his tongue over John’s sternum, dipping in his navel before continuing further south. When his lips brush the trail of wiry hair between John’s legs, he opens his mouth wider and sucks in the head of John’s cock, twirling his tongue around and around until he can feel the shaft swelling to full hardness.

Sherlock hums, opens his throat and swallows John down to the root. The sound that escapes John’s mouth makes Sherlock grin in satisfaction, despite his mouth being stuffed full with cock. He hollows his cheeks and starts in earnest, massaging the veined underside of John’s erection with his flat tongue.

At first, Sherlock can only taste soap, but suddenly the salty flavour of pre-come hits his taste buds. It's intoxicating. He sucks harder, cupping John's balls with one hand, gently rolling them in his palm. Above him, John moans.

A hand rakes through Sherlock's hair, pressing him down. Usually, John isn't very demanding, but right now he seems to enjoy Sherlock gagging on his cock. Sherlock enjoys it too.

Until his head is jerked away, his sensitive follicles screaming at the hard drag of John's fingers. John's cock slides from his mouth with a wet pop, and Sherlock is panting, his breathe ragged. A thick thread of spit clings to John's glans as Sherlock raises his gaze to meet John's; a debauched creature, a Byronic temptation with a lascivious grin plastered on his face. He's breathtaking. John shoves him down again, stuffing his mouth until his eyes water while he fights for air.

Saliva is running down his chin as John finally releases him. Sherlock's coughing, gasping. But it's not his place to complain. He's here to serve. He sits back on his heels and awaits further instructions.

He doesn't have to wait long. John shimmies down the mattress and puts a pillow beneath his hips, canting up his arse.

“Come on, lick me. Eat me out.” John growls, and Sherlock dives between his cheeks. He's never done this before. It's not that their sex life is especially vanilla, but somehow Sherlock has shied away from too intimate practices. Deep down, he somehow thinks of these things as dirty, filthy. They don't even have that much intercourse. Sherlock, up until now, had outright refused being penetrated, and John is still getting used to it. Therefore, it's mostly blow jobs or mutual hand jobs with the odd intercrural incidence in between.

Not tonight though. They are not Sherlock and John, tentatively feeling their way around a somewhat new, intimate relationship. They are Hamish White, who hired an escort named Scott. Which gives them plenty of room to experiment.

Sherlock grabs John's hips and almost folds him in half, spreading his cheeks. John grabs the back of his knees and holds on for dear life. First, Sherlock gives his cleft some broad swipes, getting accustomed to the area. By and by, he narrows in, until the tip of his tongue is circling John's tight, pink pucker. John sighs and relaxes. Sherlock spikes his tongue and pushes it.

It tastes of soap and musk and sex and John. It's hot and soft and … oh god! Sherlock sucks and John's hole flutters beneath his lips. The noises he makes are raw and desperate.

“Sher-Scott! Jesus, I thought you were born to suck cock, but this... holy FUCK!” John almost arches off the bed as Sherlock's tongue probes deeper. Down between his cheeks, Sherlock moans into John's arse, all modesty forgotten. The feeling of John writhing and squirming beneath him, loosing control, is overwhelming. He is doing this to John. And John loves it.

Suddenly, his head is yanked away again. John sits up, almost knocking Sherlock off balance, literally climbing onto his lap.

“Do you kiss?” John asks, his hot breath ghosting over Sherlock's swollen lips.

“What? Now?” Sherlock sounds shocked. John knows where his mouth has been just seconds before...

“I pay extra.” It's messy, open-mouthed, all tongues and teeth, but neither of them does particularly care.

“God, I want to fuck you so badly.” John groans against Sherlock's jaw before biting down, hard. Sherlock simply falls back onto the mattress, resting his long legs on John’s shoulders, palming his own leaking shaft enticingly.

John stares down at the sight in front of him. Sherlock, flushed and needy, spread out and open, offering himself up. It's the most beautiful things he’s ever seen. He has to have him. Now!

John lowers Sherlock’s legs and scrambles over to the bedside cabinet to grab the lube. His sweaty fingers are shaking as he fumbles with the cap, watching Sherlock sprawled out on the duvet, graceful and enticing, his nipples dark and peaked, the triangle of black curls between his legs a stark contrast to his translucent skin.

“Condoms?” Sherlock asks, sounding unsure. They usually don't use them, but in this context it might add authenticity. And it's less messy. Sherlock doesn't care what the chamber maid might think the next morning, but he's not entirely sure if he'd like come oozing out of his arse.

“Sure.” John gets up and walks over to the chair where he’d deposited his clothes earlier, searching for his wallet. While rummaging through his things, an idea springs into his sex-fused brain. “Do you still carry your handcuffs with you?” He asks.

Sherlock cranes his neck on the bed and blinks rapidly. “Yes. In my jacket.”

John crumples the bespoke piece of expensive clothing in his eagerness to retrieve the cuffs. Sherlock is surprised that he doesn't really care. All that's important is that John returns to the bed and gets into him right fucking now!

The iron shackles dangle from John’s left fist as he climbs back onto the bed, a dark gleam in his eyes.

“Budge up.” He tells Sherlock, who slowly rolls over, taking his time to present his lovely arse. John swats him playfully. “Get a move on, you lazy slag.” Sherlock moans, surprised how much John’s words turn him on. 

He sits up onto his knees and looks at John over his shoulder. “How do you want me?”

“On your back. I want to look at you.”

Sherlock turns and lies down, stretching his arms above his head. John fastens the cuffs to the headboard, pulling them tight. A fresh spark of arousal shoots through Sherlock’s body. Who’d thought he'd enjoy a little dominance so much?

“Did you prepare yourself?” John asks, his voice several octaves darker than usual.

Sherlock just shakes his head, wide-eyed.

“Okay then, spread your legs.” Sherlock does, and John pushes one lubed-up finger in right to the third knuckle. Sherlock sucks in a breath. It’s not that he’d never had anything up his arse – he is curious, after all – but he’d thought John would go slower. Well, John probably would, but Hamish White doesn’t. After a few moments, he already adds a second finger. 

It doesn’t hurt, yet it feels… odd? Sherlock's not used to being penetrated, and getting something shoved up his arse feels just the wrong way round. He forces himself to relax, but it’s easier said than done. Until John curls his fingers slightly, and Sherlock sees stars as he almost jolts off the mattress.

“Fuck!” He hisses, biting his lower lip. John smiles down at him.

“Good?” He asks.

Sherlock can only nod. Until John presses a third finger in. Sherlock can't prevent his face from contorting in discomfort. John doesn't seem to notice.

“God, you are so tight.” He pants instead, twisting his fingers tentatively inside Sherlock’s hole. “I really need to fuck you, right now.” John pulls out, quickly rolls on the condom and drapes Sherlock's ankles over his shoulders. Then he lines himself up. Sherlock tenses in somewhat anxious anticipation. Yet he can’t do anything but take it. He’s tied up, and this man paid for shagging him. He’s just here to spread his legs and let his client have his way with him.

John doesn’t go slow. In fact, he pushes in in one languid slide, all the way to the hilt. Sherlock’s hole spasm around the intruding cock as his eyes roll back in his head. The stretch is nearly too much; it burns, and Sherlock makes a small noise, squirms, tries to accommodate the huge cock breaching him – and then, as he thinks that he will finally drop out of his role and tell Hamish – John – to stop, the fireworks go off again.

John’s cock brushes over Sherlock’s prostate, and suddenly, all pain is forgotten. He arches his back, clenching around John, who has to grab his hips hard to steady him.

“Slowly.” John tells him, and Sherlock melts under his heated gaze and fierce, possessive grip. They stare at each other for a moment, and only when John seems satisfied with what he sees does he start to move again, setting a mesmerizing rhythm. Sherlock closes his eyes and tries to relax as best he can.

It still hurts a bit, but the feeling of John moving inside him is intoxicating. Especially when he speeds up, chasing just his own orgasm, using Sherlock for his pleasure. John has his head thrown back, teeth bared, sweat darkening his blond hair, and Sherlock's suddenly aware that this man has not much in common with the considerate, gentle, yet also somewhat cautious lover he usually shares the bed with. This man has lowered his guard and takes what he wants. Sherlock didn’t think he would enjoy being treated as a sex object, but somehow it's actually liberating. No need to worry about if John enjoys what they are doing – as it is obvious he does. No guilt either, for fear of lacking something John might expect in a sexual relationship – tenderness, experience, confidence when it comes to one’s own sexual predilections – is it doesn't matter right now. John takes and Sherlock gives. It can be so easy.

They are both sweaty by now, panting hard. John stops clawing to Sherlock's hips and grabs his wrists instead, pinning him down onto the mattress while hovering above him. Their eyes lock. John's rhythm doesn't falter. Sherlock face splits in a manic grin.

“Yes, come on. Harder. Give it to me. I need it. I need your cock. Fuck me!” He moans, and doesn't care that he might sound ridiculous. Usually, Sherlock Holmes would never indulge in dirty talk, being too insecure and embarrassed but hiding that behind an aloof, arrogant facade, even in bed. Apparently, Scott doesn't have such qualms. The man paying him might as well benefit from his best performance. Suddenly, it's easy letting go.

And it seems to work, for John starts to fuck him in earnest now. His hips snap as he nearly folds Sherlock in half, grabbing his calves as he pushes in relentlessly. Sherlock can taste the salt on John's body as he slumps down over him, just before gloriously sharp pain whitens his vision. Their bodies are pressed together, giving Sherlock's hard cock some much needed friction, and when John once more hits his prostate, it pushes him over the edge. Warm wetness spill between them as his hole clamps down on John's cock. Despite the condom, Sherlock can feel John pulse deep inside him as he growls into his neck.

John needs a moment after this before pulling out. Sherlock winces. John quickly rolls the condom off and ties it before dropping it on the floor. They gaze at each other, speechless and a little bit embarrassed. Sherlock is shackled to the headboard and sprawled all over the rumpled sheets while John kneels between his spread legs, a little unsure of how to proceed.

“Could you open the handcuffs, or is this the part where you reveal yourself as being some sort of psychopathic whore slayer, suffering from religious frenzy?” Sherlock rattles the cuffs a bit to remind John of untying him.

John scoots back and gets the key to release Sherlock, who sits up, rubbing his slightly chafed wrists before feeling his neck. There's a throbbing pain at the junction of his throat and shoulder.

“You bit me.” He says quietly. They don't look at each other.

“How much?”

Sherlock needs a moment to process the question. He hadn't thought about actually charging John. Isn't their little game over? Apparently not. Well, what might he'd been worth? Finally, he says: “250 quid.” He has no idea if this is too much or if he's seriously undercharging John but hopes that John won't know either. He makes a mental note to check out escort's rates for various services provided for future reference.

John nods, gets up and starts to dress himself. “The room's paid for all night. You can take a shower if you like.” He throws a few notes down onto the bedside cabinet while Sherlock covers himself with a sheet, suddenly self-conscious.

And then John – Hamish White – is gone.

\----------

Sherlock returns to 221b about two hours later. He'd taken that shower at the hotel, and then decided to walk back home rather than get a cab. He needed time to compose himself.

It's late. He'd thought John would have gone to bed, but apparently, he'd waited up for Sherlock, nursing a cup of tea between his hands while sitting in his armchair, doing nothing but stare into the cold grate of the fireplace. He's dressed in jeans and a maroon cardigan, looking utterly John-like and not a bit like Hamish White anymore.

“Hey,” he offers by way of greeting after Sherlock had hung up his coat and hovers in the kitchen doorway.

“Hi.” Sherlock replies, leaning against the wooden frame.

John coughs. “Are you all right?” He doesn't look at Sherlock but stares down into his mug.

“Of course.” Sherlock scoffs.

“Ok. Great.” John takes a deep breath and seems to steel himself before looking up. He frowns. “Listen, what we did... if you were uncomfortable with it...”

“It's fine.” Sherlock replies in answer to John's unspoken question.

“You sure?”

“John, do you seriously believe I'd do things I don't want to?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, Sherlock. I do.” He sounds actually worried.

Sherlock huffs in annoyance. “That's ridiculous, John, even for you.” He starts to turn away.

“Did you want to leave me, then, for those two years?” The words stop Sherlock mid-motion.

“No, of course not, but that was...” What? Different? Necessary? A decision that had to be made? Inevitable? But was it? “I did it for you.” Sherlock whispers.

“And back at the hotel? For whom did you do that?”

Sherlock throws up his hands in despair. “I liked it, John. Stop mollycoddling me. I'm an adult. I could have said no.”

He turns back around to fix John with a glare. John shrugs, looking somewhat sheepishly.

“But I got carried away. That was nothing like... well, like we normally do it.” John is blushing a bright crimson, a colour clashing offensively with the maroon of his cardigan.

“Perhaps that's why I liked it!” God, John could be so dense sometimes. Now he'd been forced to spell it out.

“So, you think, when we do it as John and Sherlock, it's boring?” John sounds offended. Great! Just what Sherlock tried to avoid. Why does he always get himself between a rock and a hard place?

“God, John, no! Do you listen to me, or are you just indulging in one of your self-destructive fits, butchering your confidence by falsely blaming yourself?”

John's jaw drops but he doesn't answer.

“I liked it. Because it was different. It was exciting. We both lost control. Do I want to be cuffed to the bed and fucked within an inch of my life every time I share a bed with you? Obviously not. But every now and then? Yes. I'd like to do that again. And you as well. So stop torturing yourself, for god's sake.” Sherlock's out of breathe after this outburst. He turns and puts the kettle on. He needs some tea!

John follows him.

“You still lied to me.” He says to Sherlock's back.

“How so?” Sherlock doesn't turn.

“You promised me you would be wired. You weren't. If I'd been the killer...”

“I didn't lie.” Sherlock interrupts him. Confession time. “There's a recording device in my phone. I didn't bother to tell you as you said the case had been solved. But perhaps...”

“Oh, god.” John groans. “You mean, some poor bugger might have listened in?” John sinks down onto a kitchen chair, holding his head in his hands.

“I doubt it. But who knows?” Sherlock smiles down into his mug. He doesn't care. But watching John's embarrassment is rather rewarding. “By the way. That was a clever plan, John. How did you fake the message to the escort agency? It seemed genuine.”

“I just looked at your crime wall. It's all there.” John gestures vaguely over at their sitting room.

“Oh. So you do observe.”

“Do I have a choice? The stuff's pinned right above our couch.”

Sherlock nods and blows on his tea. “I really liked it.” He says after a while.

“Me too.” John confesses, shaking his head. They are but a queer pair, the two of them.

“I might stay on their books, you know. Just in case Mr White's back in town.”

John grins. “I can't afford Scott on an army pension. I can barely manage to pay my rent.”

“Mates' rates.” Sherlock offers with a smirk before putting his mug into the sink and sauntering off into their bedroom.

John sighs and and gets up. This might be a very bad idea. Or a really good one. Time will tell.


End file.
